“No,” said the Prince, in a tone of extreme and simple melancholy. “If you had given me more information I should not have been obliged to come here myself. I arrived in London only this morning, and this evening I spent two hours walking up and down opposite the house, like a groom waiting for his master to come back from a ride. I wanted a personal impression. It was so that I saw him come in. He is not a gentleman—not even like some of the strange ones here.”
“I think he is Scotch,” remarked Madame Grandoni.
“Ah, then, you have seen him?”
“No, but I have heard him. He speaks very loud—the floors of this house are not built as we build in Italy—and his voice is the same that I have heard in the people of that country. Besides, she has told me—some things. He is a chemist’s assistant.”
“A chemist’s assistant? Santo Dio! And the other one, a year ago—more than a year ago—was a bookbinder.”
“Oh, the bookbinder!” murmured Madame Grandoni.
“And does she associate with no people of good? Has she no other society?”
“For me to tell you more, Prince, you must wait till I am free,” said the old lady.
“How do you mean, free?”
“I must choose. I must either go away—and then I can tell you what I have seen—or if I stay here I must hold my tongue.”